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[Martial Arts] Sword Dance Under the Bright MoonAutor: Jeffi Chao Hui Wu Fecha: 10-7-2025 Jueves, 3:56 PM ········································ [Martial Arts] Sword Dance Under the Bright Moon
I love to practice swordsmanship around five in the morning, practicing my self-created sword techniques. Around the fifteenth of each month, there is a special moment—when the full moon has not yet waned, and the rising sun has not yet appeared, the entire world seems frozen between two time spaces. On one side is the tranquility of the unfinished night, and on the other is the hope of dawn about to break. At this moment, no one disturbs me, there are no sounds of vehicles, no birds chirping, and even the wind seems reluctant to intrude, only that bright full moon hangs high in the sky, illuminating me standing alone on the grass.
The temperature by the sea is about six to nine degrees Celsius. I wear a summer quick-dry T-shirt and thin long pants, which is the time when most people would wear jackets or warm pants. For most people, it is a time that requires jackets and warm pants; but I have long been accustomed to waking my body through practice, using the natural energy between heaven and earth to circulate my internal energy. Especially in the horse stance, I usually start to feel warm after standing for five minutes, and after ten minutes, my whole body begins to sweat evenly. This is not the sudden sweat caused by intense exercise, but rather a natural flow of heat that seeps from the pores after the internal energy promotes the circulation of qi and blood, like a warm and living mist enveloping my entire body.
In this state, I begin to practice swordsmanship, with the energy flowing throughout, and there are almost no pauses between movements. Sweat will evenly seep from my back, arms, and chest, and a clear bead of sweat will even flow down my forehead along the center of my brows. This state of sweating evenly does not bring fatigue; instead, it makes my mind clearer and my thoughts more tranquil.
Whenever I stand on the open grassland, facing the full moon that has not yet set, a sense of indescribable calmness rises in my heart. Between heaven and earth, there is a blue-gray coolness, neither night nor day. That is the true "practice color"—not restless, not agitated, neither bright nor dark, where the energy is most easily generated, and the mind is most easily settled. At this moment, I do not rush to begin the form, but instead stand still for a few breaths, feeling the crisp airflow of the unawakened world flowing between my fingertips and the soles of my feet.
Once my breath stabilizes, I slowly raise my hand to initiate the movement, the sword rising under the moonlight. At that moment, it is not I who am dancing the sword, but rather heaven and earth using my body to compose a poem of the sword. The movements are natural, slow, and silent; I do not pursue so-called "standard movements," but instead follow the feeling of energy and the body's intentions, moving naturally. "Initiate," "White Snake Spits Its Tongue," "Green Dragon Emerges from Water," "Swallow Flies Through the Forest"… each form is a trajectory I draw in the air, sometimes unconsciously repeating a form dozens of times, immersed in that state where energy, intention, and form are in harmony.
As my breath gradually stabilizes, I gently raise my hand, the sword rising under the moonlight. In that instant, I feel as if I am no longer myself, but a flowing light, a shadow walking through the cracks of time and space. The movements are neither fast nor slow; each Tai Chi sword form unfolds like ripples slowly spreading through the air. I enjoy starting from "Initiate," slowly transitioning to "White Snake Spits Its Tongue," "Swallow Flies Through the Forest," "Green Dragon Emerges from Water," following the feeling of energy in my body. Sometimes I only practice two or three forms, repeating them hundreds of times; other times, I complete an entire set, not for completeness, but for the process.
Under the moonlight, although the sword does not emit light, every push, thrust, chop, and lift leaves a trace in the air. I can feel their existence; even if they are invisible, they truly exist in my physical sensations and consciousness. When you reach a certain level, you no longer distinguish between "sword" and "person," no longer deliberately remember the sequence of movements, but rather let your whole being flow freely, moving with the energy. Just like water flowing through the cracks of stones, it will naturally find its way without forced guidance.
The most wonderful part is the interaction between the moonlight and the sword light. Although the sword does not shine, under the moonlight, every horizontal cut, wrist turn, and pull back seems to leave an invisible trace in the air. This trace is not a flashy movement that outsiders can clearly see, but a natural flow line guided by energy and intention. It seems ethereal, yet it truly exists. It is not in the eyes, but in the heart—that is a "sword intention" connecting me with heaven and earth, and with myself.
In such moments, even if the wind stirs the grass, it does not disturb me. The sound of waves crashing against the shore comes from afar, providing me with a rhythmic echo. Sometimes, when I push out a form, it feels not like the sword moving out, but rather my entire consciousness flowing through the tip of the sword, penetrating into a resonance point between heaven and earth. In that instant, the person, sword, energy, and light all merge into one, with no distinctions remaining.
Some people ask me: Is it cold? I say, not at all. It is not because I am resisting the low temperature, but because my body has already tuned in with heaven and earth. Cold only exists in those whose muscles and bones are stiff, and whose qi and blood are stagnant; while I practice swordsmanship under the moonlight, I often feel warm all over after just a few minutes, even breaking a slight sweat on my back. It is not due to high intensity, but because of the flow of energy.
I never think of the words "cultivation" while practicing swordsmanship. That is too utilitarian a term. I practice swordsmanship simply by following the sensations of my body to perform the most natural movements. The moonlight is the best mirror, reflecting whether you are impatient, whether you are superficial, and whether your movements and breathing are in sync. Practicing during the day, the light is too strong, making your eyes and mind easily restless; while under the moonlight, you can only rely on feeling, on relaxation, and on breathing to guide your movements. At the first sign of something being off, you immediately know where the mistake lies.
One day, I remember particularly clearly. It was the fifteenth day of the lunar month, the full moon was just right, and I practiced slowly on the grass starting from "Wind Sweeps the Cold Plum" until "Phoenix Nods Its Head," taking nearly forty-five minutes. After finishing, I stood still, suddenly feeling the world fall into complete silence, even my heartbeat resonating with the distant sound of the waves. That state is not something any teacher can teach—it can only come from the accumulation of long-term practice in resonance with nature. The moon became my origin, the gentle breeze became my opponent, and the earth became my support.
Practicing swordsmanship under the moonlight, there are no applause, no spectators, no records. Just me, my sword, and this world that has yet to awaken. At that moment, I truly understood what it means to "never part from the sword, never part from the way." The sword is merely a medium; I am not dancing the sword, but using the sword to write a poem, a poem for this still-sleeping world, a poem for that self yet to be polluted.
Sword dance under the bright moon is the gentlest dialogue I have with the world, and it is my secret practice unique to the morning between heaven and earth.
Practicing under the sword is not for the sake of immortality, nor for showing off skills, but to have a dialogue with myself and resonate with heaven and earth. Many people pursue the "form" of sword practice; I focus more on the "intention" and "energy" of sword practice. Only in these moments of undisturbed solitude, free from light pollution and fluctuations of the heart, under the bright moon, is it easiest to touch that layer of the invisible yet truly existing soul of the sword.
Over the years, I have long ceased to be attached to the progress or achievements of my practice, but rather treat each "sword dance under the bright moon" as a cleansing of body and consciousness. It is the most natural meditation, a wordless healing, an unspoken tacit understanding between man and nature.
Perhaps to others, I am just a solitary figure in the morning; but I know that in that moment, I am a part of the entire universe—not too much, not too little, not disturbing, not lingering. Source: https://www.australianwinner.com/AuWinner/viewtopic.php?t=696797 |
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